The_Sweetest_Thing
MacPhisto's serving wench
Today is Rememberance/Veterans Day.
So, at 11am, if you can, please take a few minutes and remember all those who fought--not only in WWI, but WWII and all other armed conflicts.
Thus, I leave you with a poem (gasp! a poem! But this isn't Dream Out Loud!) written by a Canadian physician as he looked out over the thousands of crosses in Flanders, Belgium, and the millions of poppies that grew wild over the gravesite.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
So, at 11am, if you can, please take a few minutes and remember all those who fought--not only in WWI, but WWII and all other armed conflicts.
Thus, I leave you with a poem (gasp! a poem! But this isn't Dream Out Loud!) written by a Canadian physician as he looked out over the thousands of crosses in Flanders, Belgium, and the millions of poppies that grew wild over the gravesite.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
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